


An Interlude To Tedium

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Wotton proposes a wager, Blackwood is intrigued. </p><p>Fill for a kinkmeme-prompt. (See notes)<br/>Shameless smut with equally shameless borrowings from the already existing fic in the B/C-fandom and from Oscar Wilde of course. A certain bonmot aside, this is essentially just about sex. Hurray polyamory!</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Interlude To Tedium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Breyito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breyito/gifts).



> Fill for this prompt on the old SH-kinkmeme as saved by [unsettled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled) in her fantastic and very helpful [Prompt-Master-List](http://unsettledink.livejournal.com/8014.html) and picked out by Breyito:
> 
> "I've seen a lot of fic about how happy Coward is as Blackwood's pet, and I treat it like canon, but now I'd like to see some Coward seducing.  
> Blackwood decides he wants a piece of that. But Coward is so British and proper- you don't honestly assume that a belief in gods older than the Roman one inclines one to perversion, do you? How presumptuous! I will have you know that my father is very powerful in the oh OH oh yes sir, I deserved that, sir, I am a dirty whore, sir.  
> Basically, evolution from a good, clean British gent to Blackwood's very content pet Coward. "
> 
> __
> 
> I'm getting more and more tangled in my own opera-trope.  
> This fic feels pretty much medium-rare, like it doesn't really come to a proper conclusion, but as opposed to some fictional figures, I have no more patience to spare, sorry.  
> I hope you like it anyway, Breyito, dear! :*
> 
> I've borrowed Harry Wotton from Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray.
> 
> Last but not least, **warnings** : the OFC is a prostitute. There are D/s-overtones in this. I hope that's it. If you see sth else you think should be warned against, please tell me. Thnx.

_

The room sparkles like champagne, a golden glitter of jewellery and chandeliers, and the air is dense with chatter and perfume and the chinking of glasses; a splendour meant to deceive, for everything about the party and its dazzling brightness is a trifle too excessive to feel entirely real. London's society is telling its own fairy tale it appears, a story to belie the squalor, the hubris, the brittleness of their morals. To the keen observer is hardly more than a vain endeavour, the ugly truth is only a scratch away from the surface, just one touch of a ragged fingernail that would reveal the decay under the glossy paint. A habitat, in short, in which creatures like Harry Wotton thrive.

“I propose a wager”, he says and raises his glass. For a while the words hang as languidly between them as the wreaths of smoke, curling from their cigarettes, and in Wotton's eyes the mischief gleams no less brilliantly than the lights in the crystal chandeliers. “What do you say, old chap?”, he presses the matter. “Do you accept?”

Blackwood looks at him with a frown, how he is sprawled on the sofa in such entirely unseemly a fashion, not one iota different from the way he used to lounge about on his dorm bed in Eton, all these years ago, a picture of sensual boredom. Wotton has not changed one bit. As long as Blackwood's known him, he has always been inclined towards hedonism, without shame, without qualms, always reaching for the fruit that is most forbidden.

His gaze wanders through the room towards the lad Wotton pointed out to him, a pretty boy, hair of sunshine, eyes of sky-blue and lips like roses. There is a maiden-like beauty around him, an air of innocence. His smile is sweet, his demeanour sweeter.  
“He hardly appears to pose a challenge”, Blackwood remarks, “look at him, he is a flower ripe for the plucking. Not old enough to be completely spoilt by morals, and since when has youth not ever been tempted by carnal pleasure.”

“Not only youth, dear friend”, Wotton grins and stretches like an overgrown cat. 

Blackwood taps his fingers impatiently against the armrest of the sofa. “If this is merely an attempt to seduce me, please spare me the overture – you know you need only ask.”

“Oh, be a good sport for once, Henry, and do play along. It's not the one or the other, as you very well know. All I suggest is an entertaining little game to find some relief from the tedium. If you do not feel up to the task, we could always swap and I shall try my luck with your politician.”

Blackwood knows only too well how Wotton is pulling his strings here, and still he can't help the angry flare of jealousy in his chest, a possessive snarl that is solely contained by the iron cage of reason and discipline, these virtues civilisation breeds above all else. But Wotton's eyes are too keen to miss the pretence, and he he does not even bother with hiding his victorious smile.

There can't be any doubt that _the politician_ , as they have come to call him, is as much to Blackwood's taste as he fails to match Wotton's, who prefers beauty without the gravitas of wits or education; it is an ongoing dispute, and he even used to taunt Blackwood for his classical preferences. “I would have not taken you for such a bore, Blackwood, to cling to bourgeois ideas like the unity of intellect (or worse: virtue!) and beauty.” And he did not listen, when Blackwood tried to explain about the delights of seeing a brilliant mind come apart under one's touch. “What is it about you and your refined tastes, my friend, can you not bear to have someone so utterly unlike yourself? And do you hate yourself so much, you want to destroy all the likes of you?”

But Blackwood only laughed then and kissed him silent. He should have known, Wotton would not understand. It's not that he sees himself in other men, he is not so vain, perhaps on the contrary, for what he truly longs for is to discover the new, not marvel at the ever-same; they are, after a fashion, quite the opposite in that regard.

Now the politician, he is interesting. At first glance he looks like a man of the cloth in his black suit and starched shirt and pristine tie, the same stark contrast as between the pallor of his skin and the near blackness of his hair, a man of light and shadow. One could take him for a paragon of virtue, the embodiment of moderation, but at the same time there is an air about him, that tells of religious zeal, fervour, some dark undercurrent that turns the pious priest into a fanatic. Blackwood has heard him speak, has seen the glint of his eyes, the curl of his lips, this mouth that is a just a bit too wide and a bit too full to be only made for praying and preaching. How he would love to put it to better use.

“All right then, Harry”, he says, “I accept your challenge.”

__

In the following weeks, while Wotton pursues his golden boy, intent to strip him of his innocence and clothe him in sin, Blackwood makes a bit of a habit out of crossing the politician's path. An endeavour that, in itself, proves hardly difficult, for Daniel Coward seems to take part in about any and every social event London's society has to offer, and Blackwood has his ways of showing up there with an attitude of the utmost naturalness. Just as though he has been a part of these circles for years. And he knows how to flaunt himself in the role of the outrageously successful businessman and enigmatic libertine. It is a combination that drives most gentlemen mad with envy -- dressed up as moral indignation of course --, and also never fails to attract their attention.

They meet properly for the first time at the club, while Blackwood is about to positively thrash an opponent in a game of billiards. He is bent over the billiard table, left hand sprawled over the cloth, right hand holding the cue with the casual proficiency of an experienced player, when he notices Coward out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the door frame. He is wearing the same kind of elegant, austere clothes, and the same sort of impassive expression that only to the keen eye reveals a faint glint of curiosity and perhaps a hint of passion. 

Blackwood is inclined to smile, as he thinks about the sight he must present from Coward's perspective, the fabric of his trousers stretching tight over his bottom and thighs. He shifts his weight a little, deliberately, tarries just long enough for an extra bit of tension to unfold in the room, then lets the cue glide over the back of his left hand. It shoots forwards, strikes like a snake, and Blackwood does not even wait for the balls to stop rolling, does not bother to watch how they find their destination with instinctive certainty, before he straightens and strides around the table. He is tall, at least five inches taller than Coward, and although he is rather lean, perhaps even gaunt, his shoulder are broad, his chest wide, and this never fails to have a certain effect on people. They either recede, and be it the tiniest amount, or they stand their ground, with a bit of defiance in their eyes but also with a certain, almost imperceivable wariness. 

Daniel Coward, it turns out, belongs to the latter group, and he looks at him, not the table (which would be the more sensible choice), as if sizing him up. There is a certain challenge in his gaze; not the kind of challenge that questions authority, more a dare to show him what lies underneath the well-mannered surface. It provokes a demonstration of dominance, of power, and Blackwood longs to grant him this unspoken request, to press him against the wall and lick the smirk off his lips. But all he can do for now, is stare back, dark-eyed and humourless, and get on with the game.

The defeat Blackwood delivers to his opponent is nothing less than devastating, a success that earns him an admiring murmur among the spectators, and some even seem to consider patting him on the back, and only at the last moment, when noticing his expression, they change their mind. 

Coward waits for the audience to scatter and the loser to retreat from the field of battle, sour-faced and (not to forget) relieved of a not insignificant amount of pounds, before he steps up to him.

“Impressive how you taught Carlington a lesson”, he says, almost casually, “It's been twice overdue someone knocked the fellow down a peg. He's become rather unbearable of late.” 

Blackwood leans back against the table, the cue still in hand, long slender fingers curled around the wood, trailing them downwards, he watches Coward watching him. “I've never understood how everyone praises achievement but scorns the pride of the achiever. It seems rather hypocritical, don't you think?”

Coward's smile widens, frays into something that is equally beautiful and terrifying.  
“Oh, it's not that I believe in modesty as such. But parading one's success is always understood as a request to be put back in one's place. It is never wise to stir people's envy. They can be quite unforgiving.”

Blackwood raises an eyebrow. It appears his hopes in this man are not to be disappointed.  
“So, are you one of the unforgiving?”, he asks. 

But instead of an answer Coward only smiles.

__

After this initial conversation they talk more often, never long, merely in passing, a casual exchange of witty remarks, their agreement to keep at a distance unspoken, but Coward never fails to live up to Blackwood's expectations, is ever bright and sharp and to the point. After a while Blackwood can see a transformation in the way he seeks his gaze across the room, in the way he smiles at him, not openly, not perceivable for anyone's eyes but his. He is drawn to him, irresistibly, and even though he is too smart to let people know this, it does not escape Blackwood's attention.

It makes him wonder whether Coward only stays away for the sake of his reputation.  
Perhaps, he dares hope, perhaps is is another fear that gives him pause. 

Temptation is always a dangerous thing, and there are desires deemed so vile and forbidden, no proper gentleman would ever consider admitting, much less succumbing to them. And yet their denial makes them only grow all the more rampantly, until they fester in one's mind and poison one's thoughts. There have been times when Blackwood himself knew this sickness of the soul, and he will never forget the words Wotton whispered in his ear then, just before his lips touched his neck, breath like hellfire on his skin: _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it._ It seemed so logical then, and so right.

Daniel Coward is not a boy upon the cusp of adulthood though, but a man who has had years to learn how to brace himself against the impositions of lust, how to fashion an armour of reason to shield him against the lure of unlawful pleasures. And Blackwood has to be careful, for people cornered tend to lash out, all the more if they have to repress their longing, and he, although being already rather infamous for his libertine ways, does not need to add being an invert to his list of publicly known transgressions.

As soon as he is convinced of Coward's general interest in him, regardless the nature of his intents, he makes sure never to go anywhere without a beautiful woman on his arm. Never the same woman twice, mind you, and never the same type or shape. He will not have people think of them as anything but shiny trinkets. 

One time at the opera, when he is accompanied by a high class courtesan, and Coward is as fashionably late as they are and catches up with them in the foyer, and Blackwood wonders if he has waited for him on purpose, he ushers him with them to his private loge, refusing to accept any excuses. 

He requests drinks, champagne for the lady, whiskey for the men, and only realises how profoundly Coward's presence will change his plans for the evening, when they are all served and seated (on three plush chairs behind the balustrade, the girl in the middle) and supposed to be captured by the spectacle going on in the stage, and he cannot tear his eyes away from him. Blackwood isn't particularly fond of the opera, he only goes there because it is convenient. He must attend certain social events and there are some he prefers above others; the singing for example draws so much attention and the layout of his loge grants so much privacy, he can use these evenings for other pastimes, activities he can indulge in without having to fear detection. It's just jolly good fun, really. Only now, with Coward's being there too, this plan seems a little impracticable. 

But then he's got a lady for the evening, a gorgeous woman, and he has made a habit of never employing a whore's services twice, so if he wants to know her (in the biblical sense) this is the night. And, as if it were a conspiracy, the accidental nature of their encounter is totally lost on the girl it appears. She thinks there is a plan, and the way she looks at Coward speaks volumes of its appeal. 

(Of course, his beauty is not reserved for his eyes only, however much Blackwood would love the thought to have him all for himself.)

She is still dutifully curled against his side, her left hand resting on his thigh, but her eyes are pinned onto Coward who tries to concentrate on the opera and fails abysmally. His internal struggle could not be more obvious – he sits unnaturally upright, his expression turned to stone as he keeps staring down upon the stage, a treacherous blush creeping over his creamy complexion – and yet he does not run, but stays, rooted to the spot.

A fact that pleases Blackwood more than he has expected. 

It encourages him to go through with his plan for the evening, not despite Coward's presence, but because of it. He keeps watching him, even as he lowers his mouth to the girl's shoulder and trails his lips over her neck in a manner that leaves not doubt about his intentions, and the girl plays her role with perfection and moans wantonly under the touch, just loud enough for Coward to hear. And hear it he does, as Blackwood can see in the way he goes even stiller, how his jaw clenches, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers.

The girl makes an even lewder sound, when he runs his tongue over the shell of her ear, but still, Coward won't look, so Blackwood whispers a request, she is swift to accommodate. She lifts her skirts, clearing the way for his hand to find the softness of her thighs, then higher, the curls between her legs. He brushes his fingers over her, only petting the down with light touches that will accomplish nothing for her but built some vague sense of tension. For the moment he merely aims to tease. 

Coward must notice what is going on in the periphery of his vision, judging from how he bites his bottom lip, the sharpness of his left cuspid nearly drawing blood. 

The girl in his arms begins to grow impatient, twist and wiggles to get more friction from his fingers, then, as she is unsuccessful, turns her head, her lips searching for his. Her kiss, open-mouthed and shameless, is designed to stir his hunger, but he won't have her control him.  
“Patience, kitten”, he says when he breaks away from her, his voice still warm with amusement, but the sprawl of his fingers around her throat cannot be mistaken for anything but a warning against further disobedience. It is not her place to decide what will happen next, however eager she may be to gain an upper hand. 

He makes her gather her skirts around her waist and spread her legs further, so nothing blocks Coward's view of her exposed sex, when Blackwood slips a long, nimble finger inside her at last. 

It's her soft curse that eventually causes Coward's gaze to dart into their direction, and once he has laid eyes on the scene, he appears unable to look away again. He watches mesmerised how Blackwood's fingers, first one, then two, finally three thrust into her, his thumb spreading her wetness over her, until she is threatening to come apart under his touch. He draws it out a little, feasting on her sighs and moans and Coward's efforts not to echo them, until he pulls back his hand. 

Blackwood lets her lick his fingers clean, before he whispers his next demand, and she scrambles to her feet and reaches out for Coward, who just stares blankly at her, as if he did not know what on earth could possess her to offer-- then glances at Blackwood.

“Go on”, Blackwood says with a wave of his hand, a prompt that is no less command than invitation, and Coward allows himself to be led to a sofa in the back of the box, where they will be relatively hidden from prying eyes. Down on the stage a woman sings at the top her lungs but none of them could have cared less.

The girl pushes Coward down on the lush upholstery, her small hand uncompromising on his chest. It is quite clear what she means by it – he must stay still while she does as she pleases. Quite an apt tool, the girl, Blackwood muses, a little dominant herself. He likes that in a woman. She is still in control when she kneels before Coward to open his trousers and retrieve his cock which, to Blackwood's satisfaction, is already all eager and ready for her. 

The last thing Coward does before her lips close around him, is to turn his head into Blackwood's direction, eyes wide, mouth blood-wet and open, and Blackwood is almost grateful, when Coward's lids flutter shut and he is spared the sharpness of his gaze, under which he may not longer be able to hide his desire.

He tries to ignore the keen tingle of arousal around the base of his spine, tries to keep his breathing even and calm, not give in to the want clawing its way upwards from his guts, but stay silent and seated and simply watch – the expression of intolerable pleasure on Coward's beautiful face, the way his hands curl into the girl's hair, only loosely, tenderly, how then the girl stands and moves to straddle Coward's lap, careful to gather her skirts just enough, Blackwood can see everything that is going on, how Coward's cock dips into her cunt, the wide head stretching her open, then disappears inside her, hard and thick and so good, concluding from the sounds that escape her, only the noises _he_ swallows could possibly be sweeter.

Patience is a virtue, Blackwood tells himself, as Coward arcs into the girl riding him, eyes still closed, teeth digging into his bottom lip to stifle the moans that must be filling his throat like the cotton feel on Blackwood's own tongue, harder and faster their bodies rock into each other, and what would Blackwood give if he simply could walk over and thread his fingers into Coward's hair, pull his head back just a little more, and then claim these wanton lips in a kiss of ownership. _Mine, mine, mine_ , his heart pounds in his chest, his cock twitching in sympathy.

It's not until he is upon the threshold of climax, that Coward opens his eyes again and looks at him, quicksilver-rimmed hollowness; so dark is his gaze, Blackwood is inclined to believe he can see through him to the bottom of his very soul, that night-black pit of desire, that somehow might become their shared circle of hell. Oh how he hopes for it, in this very moment, when Coward goes still under the girl and only his white-boned grasp on her hips betrays the tension of orgasm. And Blackwood decides, that later, in the secrecy of his carriage, he shall lick every last drop of Coward's come from her cunt. 

It's what he thinks about the whole time she sucks him off, while he tries not to stare at Coward who still sits somewhat dazed on the sofa, a hand curled around his whiskey glass and an expression on his face that Blackwood cannot quite read.

__

He meets Wotton for lunch the day after, still somewhat drunk on sensations, and his old friend only laughs good-naturedly at the sight of his rapture. “Oh my, Henry”, he exclaims with glee, “if I weren't to know you better, I would swear you had fallen for that beautiful politician of yours.”

And Blackwood hides the soppiness of his smile against his wine glass and is utterly thankful about Wotton being so self-centred, that just a moment later this assessment is forgotten and he is babbling away happily about his own progress with Dorian Gray. 

Perhaps his desire is really something akin to love, he muses, as he listens to Wotton speaking of how to change and twist and turn the object of his affection, mould him to fit his purpose, while Blackwood himself does not feel in the least inclined to alter anything about Coward. Maybe push him a little, into a certain direction, but without applying force. Control as Blackwood sees is actually the opposite of coercion. He wants Coward to submit to him of his free will, be his because he desires him, not because he is blackmailed or tricked into giving in. And he is quite confident, for what he saw in him the evening before, when they bid their good-byes, inebriated by drink and afterglow, that he shall eventually give him what he wants.

“I admit the general nuisance of this game of seduction is one's slow progress. It leaves one utterly dissatisfied”, Wotton remarks while he slices his knife through the meat on his plate. “Don't you agree, old chap?” 

In deed Blackwood could not agree more. 

It does sure help to have a willing, warm, gorgeous body to do with as he pleases, he finds later, as he is driving into Wotton with the utmost abandon and the soft moans of his old friend are sweeter in his ears than any opera.

__

Coward is flustered to say the least, when they accidentally run into each other at a meeting of the Order, and, like so often are introduced to each other like total strangers, but to his credit he is so quick to regain his composure, no one notices that something is wrong. No one apart from Blackwood that is. 

It's not so much the embarrassment of being caught in these silly robes, Blackwood supposes, but the topic of the conversation that throws Coward off balance. They discuss a part of an arcane scripture, that involves a ritual of shocking perversity, or so everyone claims, while still gaping at the drawings that come with the text: an exquisite youth, stripped and bound for the pleasure of the priest, a coupling meant to destroy every last shred of moral and decency and invoke powers older, so much older than the Christian faith. 

It is, essentially, everything people accuse occultists of, and worse.

“How presumptuous to assume the beliefs of the Order would incline one towards such depravity”, Coward says, and Blackwood suspects, he feels like fending off a swarm of piranhas, for every single one of those gentleman of impeccable repute wears quite the same lecherous expression and the same sharp-toothed smile.

It could not be more obvious how these fine lords cannot help imagine themselves taking the place of the priest, and how they all agree that from their ranks no one could better be suited for despoilment than Coward who is not only young but, without doubt, delicious, a man to match the requirements of the ritual perfectly. Coward himself comprehends it, too, has recognised himself in the picture, as soon as he has laid eyes on the book. 

And Blackwood has seen the veil of blissful ignorance lifting, Coward's gaze flicking up, meeting his and his alone, and within a moment the question in his eyes became certainty, became confusion again. He has understood the meaning of it all, the point and purpose of the interlude at the theatre, and yet he knows not what to make of it. 

But Blackwood can wait. Just a little bit longer.

__

Coward has perfected his mask of impassive politeness, he must grant him that. The next time they meet, he does not blink an eye, but smiles the most courteous little smile.  
“Lord Blackwood”, he says very civilly and indicates the hint of a bow. “How splendid to see you here. Shall I have the pleasure of a _conversation_ with you later?”  
The sharp glint of teeth behind his lips does not leave much doubt about the intentional double-meaning of his words, it appears he has made his choice after all, and Blackwood spends the rest of the evening fighting down the pictures his over-active imagination invokes in his head. 

He waits as long as he can possibly justify to himself, exercises the self-restraint of a predator lying in wait, even though, at this point, he cannot be entirely sure anymore who is lurking for whom; and also the impatience is burning under his skin with nerve-racking ardour. The evening is late, when he eventually manages to corner Coward, crowd him carefully into a dark corner-- and could not be more surprised when it is in fact Coward who drags his head down with eager hands and kisses him, fervently, feverishly, frantically even, all wet lips and wanton tongue, and he does not let go of him before they're not both panting for breath.

“Henry”, Coward gasps, how sweetly the name falls from his swollen lips, how reverently, how desperately, and it is then that Blackwood gives in to the urge, combs his fingers into his immaculate hair and tugs, pulls his head backwards to bares that long throat in a gesture of dominance, and Coward trembles so deliciously as he licks along the sensitive skin, the scrape of teeth a distinct reminder of a barely tamed hunger.

“You call on me, when you are serious about this”, Blackwood almost growls into Coward's ear before he lets go of him. Stepping back he takes a good look at him, the dark gleam of his gaze, the red bruise of his mouth, the tousled hair. “Here, my visiting card”, he says, holding it out with steady fingers, and as soon as Coward has snatched it from his grasp, he turns on the heel and walks away.

__

He has instructed his servants to admit Lord Coward at any time of the day, but he is not prepared to see him quite so soon. He has scarcely come home, when there is a knock on his door, and his butler is announcing “the Lord Coward, if my Lord Blackwood would be so gracious as to receive him”, and of course he is. 

“I do not appreciate being left like that”, Coward complains as he strides towards him, eyes blazing and lips still outrageously red, and tangles his hands into the lapels of Blackwood's jacket. “I thought to have made my intentions abundantly clear already. Why this delay?”

The corners of Blackwood's mouth twitch, but his expression is more mocking than amused.  
“So you would have me fuck you where anyone, everyone could have found us?” 

Something like anger and perhaps disgust ghosts over Coward's angelic features, and he tries to take a step backwards, but now Blackwood has him, his hands like shackles around his wrists as he holds him close. 

“Now, now, Daniel”, he scolds, “no reason to leave, I'm merely honest with you. All I can expect from you is the truth in return.” He lowers his head and whispers into Coward's ear. “Do you like it when people watch? I can summon all of my servants to witness me fucking you.” The shiver he receives in response is answer enough for him. So he's struck a cord. Interesting, he thinks, and finally lets go of Coward.

He stumbles backwards a little, again conflicting emotions are flickering over his face. But only for a moment, then he has made up his mind. Licks his lips in a way he must know is utterly enticing.  
“How would you have me then?”, he asks, his voice rough and worn, and in Blackwood's chest, triumph unfolds its golden wings.

__

“I must say I'm most favourably impressed by your results”, Wotton says, genuinely amazed for all his usual aloofness, “I've never quite fathomed your gift for these things.” 

He runs a finger over the delicate knobs of Coward's spine, relishing how he trembles under the touch; he follows their path down to where he is all used and slippery. 

“May I?”, he whispers before pushing a finger into the wet opening, the awe unmistakable in his voice.

And no wonder, Coward makes for a marvellous sight. He is the very picture of debauchery. Utterly naked, limbs obediently folded beneath him, he waits for the permission to move, for the next order, for whatever his lord chooses to do with him. He could not have been more still, if Blackwood had bound him, and it's not for a lack of wanting, because after all this time, the position must have become quite uncomfortable. And yet he does not stir, does not even dare make a sound. It fills Blackwood with more pride than he could express, and Wotton with more curiosity than he would like to admit. It is quite apparent though, in the way his hand trails over almost every inch of exposed flesh. Coward's skin is shimmering, silky with sweat, shining like polished marble in the dim light of the bedroom. 

“This is extraordinary”, Wotton breathes, when he brushes the pads of his fingers against the tenderness of Coward's balls and while Coward almost manages to stifle the moan in his throat, he cannot help the caress shivering through his whole body, he is strung so tight, every touch reverberates through him like sound in the body of an instrument. 

“Just a shame, he is so quiet”, Wotton murmurs, more to himself than anything.

Blackwood's mouth softens into an amused smile as he sits down on the bed, leaning down a little to fondly stroke a strand of hair out of Coward's face. “Would you object to Harry playing with you for a while?”, he asks, and Coward shakes his head, unable to speak it seems, for Wotton has not ceased touching him, and the pleasure may be too intense to trust his mouth to form words, or perhaps he thinks he is not allowed to? “No need for silence, pet”, Blackwoods says, “Do you want Harry to have a little fun with you?”

And if the answering groan were not consent enough, the pleas falling from Coward's lips soon after would leave no more room for doubt.

_


End file.
